


Confess

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: Skyborn (Video Game)
Genre: Cuties, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-18 01:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18975877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: There are four fics other than this one at the time of writing. I am so sad. But I hope to give the four (4) people in this fandom a modicum of joy.





	Confess

**Author's Note:**

> There are four fics other than this one at the time of writing. I am so sad. But I hope to give the four (4) people in this fandom a modicum of joy.

Despite what certain mechanics might say, Sullivan is no fool. He knows his bargaining skills are terrible and the only reason people let him bargain them down is because his father is still the owner of Blackstone Industries. But Claret tells him a fair price for an item, and by the gods, he gets that price.

So there’s a bounce in his step as he walks aboard the ship to tell Claret that he’s gotten the propeller she needs, and also he’s gotten it so that it will be delivered (for free) instead of them having to lug a trolley across uptown to the portal and then across the industrial district and back again. He’s quite proud of himself, and hums a jaunty tune as he strolls to the workshop.

Claret is working on the engine for another rich idiot’s airship. She’s quite annoyed, judging by her snarl, and the way she yanks her wrench. Sullivan pauses in the doorway, unsure if now would be a good time to talk to her.

It’s odd. Those few weeks traveling with her and the others, killing monsters, building their skills, preparing to fight the Skyborn… he grew more used to her being covered in blood than oil and the usual smudges of a working mechanic. He likes her better now. Before, she had a warrior’s look, for all that she had been the voice of reason; now she’s plain old Claret Spencer, mechanic, and the only time that warrior-self peeks through is when they have to fight off renegade Skyborn. She’s happier this way. Even when she’s angry with clients, she’s happier buried to the waist in the bowels of some weird machine than shooting people with guns.

Sullivan is extremely glad that she’s happy now.

Well, not right now, this minute; she’s moved on from muttering to barking orders at poor Coggie and swearing like a sailor, as her temper mounts. Sullivan is deciding it’s best to intervene when a beam of sunlight manages to sneak through the clouds outside and touches the scene before him.

And he’s absolutely frozen, smote by some emotion he can’t name. Chaska’s the one who reads flowery novels, not him. The golden light brings out the copper and chestnut in Claret’s hair, makes her gear gleam, brings out the fire in her eyes. The muscles of her arms are flexed as she pulls and yanks on the machine, and she looks absolutely magical, even while she does something as mundane as her work. Even her scowl is a million times more beautiful.

She finally notices him, and turns her head to snap, “What do _you_ want?”

Sullivan is halfway across the shop before he knows what he’s doing, and then he’s dropped to one knee beside her, taken her free hand, and blurted, “Will you marry me?”

Claret freezes, and her eyes widen, as the scowl eases. After a moment, she says flatly, “That is a very bad joke, Sullivan Chesterford.”

“Not a joke.” All his manners and fancy words seem to have left him. The sun is still playing in her hair, caressing her cheek, and his heart is in his throat. “Please, Claret, will you marry me?”

The entire shop seems to hold its breath. Coggie is absolutely still, little mechanical eyes fixed on the scene. Slowly, Claret’s cheeks begin to redden, and Sullivan awaits her decision, hopeful and yet dreading the look on her face.

“Get up,” she mutters finally, tugging his hand. “You’re getting grease all over your trousers.”

Sullivan stands, slowly, and tries not to be too thrilled that she hasn’t pulled her hand free of his. She hasn’t answered yet. He must be prepared for the worst.

She looks down at their hands, clasped together, and says, “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Sullivan lifts her hand and kisses the back of it, even though she’s wearing gloves. “Alright. They’ll be delivering the propeller tomorrow, too.”

“Oh. Good. Um. How much will that cost?” She’s still not looking him in the eye.

“It’s free.”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll finish up here.”

“Alright.” And Sullivan leaves, his heart still pounding with adrenaline. Zounds, he hasn’t been that frightened since… since… he can’t remember exactly, but he must have been once.

He can’t help looking back before his leaves the workshop; Claret quickly turns her back, but he can tell that she was looking at him. Suddenly he is much more hopeful, and goes to check the autopilot with a smile.

~

“ _Me_? Marry _him_?” Claret finishes wiping excess oil away, muttering to herself and Coggie. She’s still a little shaken. His face when he’d asked her… “No way. It wouldn’t work out. And it would be just what Jake wanted.” She scowls, remembering her brother’s high-handed attempt to marry her off so she would be “taken care of”. She hasn’t forgiven him, and she still won’t forgive him, for that and a lot of other things. But Sullivan…

“Forget it, Claret,” she snarls to herself, trying to get her shaking hands under control. “He’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

Coggie twitters at her, annoyed. She shoots him a glare. “What do _you_ know about it? You’re just a machine.”

She really wishes Corwin were here. She could talk it out with him. But he’s searching for Earthenfey and learning all he can about them, and she doesn’t know when he’ll be back—if ever. Jillie would be no help; she’d insist that Sully meant it kindly (if he meant it at all, though Jillie wouldn’t mention that). Everyone would insist that she could never do better than marrying a Chesterford…

That’s one of the sticking points. Everyone would talk about how great a catch he is and how lucky Claret is to marry so high and how she’ll get into “all the right circles” (as if she ever _wanted_ to be a fancy lady who only cared about society) and that she could do whatever she wanted once she had Sullivan’s money. Well, screw that. She’d rather live alone the rest of her life than be shackled to a man who would tire of her eventually, and have so many people poking and prodding trying to deem her “worthy”.

Claret has almost decided to walk right out and tell him no, without taking longer to think—until she remembers his expression when he’d asked her. She knows when he’s acting, now, and that hadn’t had the air of extravagance that his pretending usually does. It had been clean and honest and… she doesn’t know the word for it, because it can’t be “love”. It can’t be that he actually likes her at all. Oh, they get on well enough, and he’s actively trying to improve as a pilot, and with his name attached to any kind of paperwork, Claret has access to everything and everyone, even without Alda’s favor. He grants her favors without her needing to ask more than once; sometimes he does things for her just because he knows she needs or likes it.

But she does the same for him. That’s friendship. Romance doesn’t even enter into the equation.

She realizes she’s been standing beside the engine, hands at her sides, staring blankly at the machinery, for several minutes.

Hurriedly, she gets on with her work. She’ll wait. She’ll think about it some more. She owes Sullivan more thought than this. And there’s work yet to do, today.

~

Sullivan isn’t very surprised when Claret orders him to fly down to the shop in the industrial district, and they spend the night in the family quarters. Well, Claret does; Sullivan has the guest room, which he doesn’t mind. On board the ship, they share that big room outfitted for the rebels, with a stretch of canvas dividing the room and that’s it; here, there are walls, and doors, and Claret doesn’t have Sullivan’s presence pressing at her, making her nervous. He does not want to make her nervous.

In the morning, Sullivan is up first, and preparing the only food he knows how to cook; toast and hard-boiled eggs. He’s still horrified by Claret’s insistence that the eggs must be dipped in ketchup to be edible, but he has stopped arguing, and simply sets out the ketchup bottle on the tiny table.

Claret shuffles into the kitchen with Coggie going in circles around her feet, chirping good morning. Sullivan smiles at him, but then he looks up and sees the dark circles under Claret’s eyes and the way she avoids his gaze. She’s still thinking. She thought most of the night. Sullivan’s hope plummets.

They eat in silence. Claret wolfs her food, and when she’s done she stands and walks out, presumably to get to work. Sullivan feels tension build in his stomach as he gathers the dirty dishes and washes up. When that’s done, he goes down to see if Claret has any orders for him.

Funny, he used to only take orders from Father, and even then, he would argue; but now that he’s technically Claret’s employee, he does what she says with no protest.

Maybe that’s infatuation. But it wasn’t infatuation that struck him yesterday.

He enters the workshop and Claret is facing the door, frowning, hands on her hips, Coggie shuffling beside her. Sullivan wonders if he shouldn’t have eaten that last egg.

“I don’t get it,” Claret says finally, and her voice, sharp with tiredness and frustration, echoes faintly in the large room. “Why me? You could have your pick of any of the girls in the city—why _me_?”

Sullivan thinks about this carefully. He dares not insult her, but he’s not sure how to phrase his feelings. Finally, he says, “Because I don’t care about them. I care about you.” He meets Claret’s eyes and says, his voice breaking just a little, “I love you, Claret.”

She seems frozen, tense and very still, staring at him with an uncertain look on her face. Sullivan gathers all his courage and takes one step forward—

And suddenly Claret is hurtling towards him at the speed of light and when she slams into him she hugs him so tight he wheezes and coughs. Mechanics are very strong.

“Idiot,” Claret mumbles into his chest.

Sullivan wraps his arms around her and feels like, if he were sliced in two by a renegade Skyborn in that very moment, he would die happy. “Am not,” he murmurs, pressing his face to her hair (and trying to avoid her soot-streaked goggles).

“Only an idiot would say that.”

“Even idiots can see how wonderful you are.” He judges that may be a bit far when she flinches, so he says no more, just holds her and feels so at peace.

“I think I love you too,” Claret whispers, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear.

Sullivan is grinning like a fool now, and is quite happy she can’t see. “Thank you,” he replies, just as softly.

“Am I interrupting?” Jake says from behind them.

~

Only a few people are invited to the wedding: Alda, still shaky as Empress but gaining ground; Wax, beaming from ear to ear; Jillie, bouncing in her seat; Corwin, smirking and holding the Earthenfey infant he’d picked up in the ruins and who watches everything with wide purple eyes that are too knowing for a child; Jake, also beaming, but relegated to the back so Claret doesn’t throw a wrench at him; an assortment of rebels; and Chaska.

Chaska appears two minutes before the ceremony starts, somehow taller than she had been a few weeks ago. Her clothes are clean and whole, her scars are faded, and the portal she opens no longer smells corrupted and sad. There is a clarity and peace in her that breaks as soon as she sees Claret in a new suit and Sullivan dressed so fancy; she grins and runs over to hug them both, careful not to prick their fine clothes on her spines. Claret kisses Chaska’s cheek, and Sullivan says, “Thank you for coming, Chaska.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Chaska replies, beaming at them. “Can I sit in the front row?”

Claret grins. “We saved you the seat of honor, next to Corwin.”

“Yay! Oh, this is going to be _wonderful_!”


End file.
